Insomnia, inschnomnia

Well, since the cat's already out of the bag that I'm all kinds of cray-cray, I may as well expound.

I don't sleep well. At all. After maybe an hour of, "Come on, come on, fall asleep. Stop thinking. Stop thinking about thinking," I notice that I'm tapping out a drum pattern with my teeth or fingers or both. After maybe another hour, I play this little game with myself. I think of some random topic, like "yellow," or "grapes," or "schizophrenia," and then think of a chain through whatever first comes to mind. I go along until I ultimately get back to where I started. Here's an example:

Yellow, sun, corona, beach, sharks, drowning, swimming pool, Nanny, gold shoes, silver purse, Mum, Olive Garden, Minestrone soup, tomatoes, vegetables, Ranch dressing, coupons, finance, school, death, blue, ocean, sun, light, yellow.

Surely this isn't THAT crazy. Surely others do this sometimes, no?

Spider Incident Mark I--aka Phobic Insights

Well, it was the first spider mishap of the year. A surprise, as it's January. I was working at my desk and saw its little legs slither all over my nightstand. After that electric shock to the pit of my stomach and the physical recoil, I assess the damage. Now that I'm an "adult" and all, I can handle these kinds of things, I push out the thoughts that this is an omen and run to get the Raid. As I'm poised to assassinate this grotesque, malicious intruder, I pause to notice it's too close to my iHome, my iPod, my DS, and my chapstick to use the spray. I think quickly, sifting through my options. I could spray it anyway, possibly damaging my electronics and leave the carcass for Chris to pick up (a nice birthday surprise for him). I could try to squish it...a major mental obstacle. I only kill little ones. With far too many paper towels. And I'm proud of myself for that. Big step.

I grab Chris's old Sunday shoe, 3 large paper towels and edge in closer (I know, I know; but I can't use my shoe just in case guts are involved). Drat. It's disappeared. A far worse scenario, as I will be unable to sleep here without seeing a body. I pause again. Standing there with the shoe, the paper towels, and my eyes darting in all directions. It's like an escaped fugitive--there's a certain radius it's certain to be in, but only for a set amount of time. I have to think fast. Like Tommy Lee Jones. I kick the bottom of the nightstand, hoping it will surrender and move into a more opportune spot to be murdered.

And after another shock to the bottom of my stomach, I see its little speckled body, right under my chapstick. Speckled. Squishing it is certainly out. I back up to a distance where I can still see where it moves, but so that my eyes can't focus on clear details. Wouldn't want nightmares or anything.

I look at the time and see that there's ten minutes left until Christian gets home. He can easily dispose of it. But it could be gone in ten minutes, and then I'll be in that worse scenario again. So I make the decision. Aloud I say, "Screw it," and think to myself, "I wouldn't want that chapstick anyway now that it's nasty, diseased legs have touched it." I give it a little spray (not my usual over-dousing), avoiding the iHome as best I can, and look away. I can't watch the writhing. That stays with me too vividly.

So Chris eventually gets home and finds the carcass curled up under the iHome in a pool of the poison. I stand on the office chair to make sure there really is a body (I've been lied to before from various people who were just trying to put my mind at ease). Chris throws it away, and while I'm still standing on the chair, I say, "Well, since I'm already up here, you might as well spin me." He does, laughter ensues, and life goes on. The only casualty being my chapstick. Worth the two dollars for vengeance.

This is definitely not the most peculiar spider incident, but the timing is what bothers me. Whenever I've had a hard day or made a big decision I'm unsure about, it's hard not to interpret the big spider coincidences that happen to me so frequently as more than they are. I know, they're everywhere and sneak up on everyone. But oh, the stories I could tell of the impossible happening.

And disclaimer: I don't want any raised eye brows and thoughts of, "Wow, that there is real crazy." I'm cool. I'm fine. I've been doing this since I was six. It's gotten better. When someone is around to kill them, they're not discovered on my person, and they're not African-Man-Eating-Sized, it's not a big deal at all.

Goodbye Hideous Planners

I bought a new planner today. It was more momentous than it may seem. For the last three years, I’ve purchased the same brand of day planner, all with the same font and format week after week after week after week after week after week. I’ve probably traced and embellished the cursive words at the top of each week’s page, “Plan Ahead,” over a hundred times. Flipping through it, I see I’ve made sharp, angry doodles throughout. I have not filled these planners with good things. I’ve filled them with stressful to-do lists, looming events, and mundane tasks. I make a small box next to each task and X it out once it is accomplished. Big things, like “DEFEND THESIS PROPOSAL,” has a ridiculously large box next to it, with about 8 X’s scratched deeply into its surface.
But it’s not just the contents of these horrible, little books that get to me. It’s the font and format itself. For three years, I’ve associated the horrific day-to-day tasks of a beleaguered graduate student with this repulsive, grey font. For three years, I’ve flipped to a new week, hoping it would be less busy, less stressful, less wickedly horrendous, only to see those bland letters defiantly staring back at me.
So you might be thinking to yourself, why in the world would you keep buying the same kind of planner? You’ll see near the end of each little book, I have written, “Go buy new planner.” Whenever something isn’t accomplished that day, I cross it out (instead of an X) and write it again the next day. You’ll see “Go buy new planner” written a dozen times in each of these books. So part of the problem is that by the time I actually get to the store, (I’m not even kidding) these are the only kind left. Besides, they’re cheap. And I usually enjoy the satisfaction of cheap things. I didn’t anticipate that they would get under my skin as much as they do. And it’s almost like fate intervened. These little planners haunt me.
But this year. 2011. This is the year I finish the atrocity of my graduate program. This is the year I will emerge from the rubble in my brain. If I’ve got any left, I’ll stop neglecting friendships.
So, I went to SO many stores. And all I saw were those hideous planners. As I’d pick one up and check its innards, I would recoil and throw it back like it was a giant spider in a dirty diaper. –Pause for this image to sink in.-- And after SO many stores, I found it. It was reasonably priced. It was blue. Sky blue. It had tabs for each month. And on the inside? Oh, it warmed my own innards to see light images of an azure sky, turquoise water, and a glimmering beach on each page. It is perfect. There was no line at Wal-Mart. A sign, I’m sure. I took it home and copied this week’s to-do into it. Instead of my old bookmark (a worn envelope with more angry-looking squiggle-weapons sketched on it), I tied a crisp, clean, white ribbon to its spirals and marked my page.
I never said this would be interesting, but this year will be a better year for me. Yes, I still have unspeakable, flaming hoops of academia to jump through, but I can go to my little beach each time I schedule a meeting.

I'm Messed Up

I think this drawing I found in my old notebook says a lot about me, my fears, and my outlook on the future.. I AM going on an Alaskan cruise in June, so perhaps this is an omen.

Hey l'Halloween

If I ever come upon someone who hasn't noticed me, I take great care not to startle him/her. I may jingle my keys or back out and enter the room again, louder this time. No sudden movements.
I learned my lesson my first year of college when I stealthily and creepily crawled up to Maren (my roommate) as she got into bed. She squealed in terror and I laughed heartily. But she promised that she would get me back. I wouldn't know when or where, but it would happen with a vengeance. That whole year, I'd peak around corners, enter rooms cautiously, and jump at any small sound. My quality of living plummeted.
To this day, I live in fear of retribution. Now, she's probably forgotten the whole thing, but maybe she hasn't. Maybe she's in my house right now...
Nobody startle me, ok? I can't take it.

Burning Hair = Displeased Samie

It turns out it's not such a good idea to try to flat iron your fake hair extension.. It really brought back the traumatic memories of burning my actual hair.. There I was, innocently molding a man out of some play dough and exhorting information from him at birthday-candle-point, and as I lean over the lighted candle, my hair drapes over it...wow. I've never smelt such a smell nor done such a silly panic-dance. Panic at the disco was wrong; it's not time to dance. And, umm, admittedly this happened like two years ago...

Also, I want you to say this out loud. Go on, do it: Post-apocalyptic Pocahontas.
She's out for your blood along with the soul of the world. You shouldn't have made fun of her for thinking corn was gold.

Obama luuuvs his root beer

Getting a tax return is like
Christmas 2: The New Flat Screen


Also, I had the weirdest dream last night that Obama came over to my apartment to hang out (naturally he would want to) and I really wanted to go to the bike shop, but he ate a whole root beer bottle...like the whole glass bottle...so I had to do the Heimlich...and then the paparazzi took many pictures...Hmmm...political metaphor?